


Three Hours to Lexington

by ingwertee



Category: Justified
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, PTSD, art worried about his son, episode tag: 04x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingwertee/pseuds/ingwertee
Summary: “Raylan,” Art tries for casual. “You remember how I sometimes say Deputy Gutterson reminds me a little of the makings of a time bomb?”“You sayin’ he about to blow?”“I’m sayin’ somethin’ today just set off the timer.” Art nods, claps Raylan on the back. “And I sure would like some backup in the event I gotta duck for cover.”--Coda to 04x11. Art, Raylan, and Tim head back to Lexington after the IED scare.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Three Hours to Lexington

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There's a brief dream sequence that depicts war, violence, and death.

“Aw, hell.” Art sighs, arms crossed against his chest. He leans against the marshals’ black SUV, working through a piece of gum, as he watches the locals begin to leave the scene.

“Well,” he says to no one in particular. “Guess we oughta head back.”

He’s flanked by Tim, who stands stiffly next to his boss. They’re at the abandoned high school. After they’d – he’d – diffused the IED, they’d hightailed it to the school, where Raylan was. Then they waited as Raylan helped some short, bloodied man into an ambulance and watched him speak to the Harlan police, KPD, and the rest, on some adrenaline high.

Tim glances at Art, face blank. “What?” he drawls. “Fun time over?”

Art huffs out a laugh. “Much as I like it here ‘n all.” He stands up straight. “Raylan!” he calls. “You about good?”

Raylan tilts his hat up to see his boss better. “What, you need a ride?”

“Want you to ride with us.” Art shakes his head. “How ‘bout that?”

Raylan nods at the cops circled around him, shakes a few hands. Art goes over to meet him.

“You sore for company, Art?” Raylan says good-naturedly. He starts to head towards the SUV, where Tim is, staring off at something in the distance, but Art holds up a hand.

“Son, first, you did well today.” Art says. “You did a good job.”

Raylan pauses. “But?”

“But I got one more job for you.” Art says.

“Okay.”

“Raylan,” Art tries for casual. “You remember how I sometimes say Deputy Gutterson reminds me a little of the makings of a time bomb?”

“You sayin’ he about to blow?”

“I’m sayin’ somethin’ today just set off the timer.” Art nods, claps Raylan on the back. “And I sure would like some backup in the event I gotta duck for cover.”

\--

Tim’s first inclination that he’s being monitored is when Art insists on driving. His second hint is when Art reaches over Raylan to open the passenger side glove compartment, pulls out Tim’s beat-up fantasy novel, and tosses it to him in the back seat.

“Take a load off, son.” Art says, putting the vehicle into reverse. “We got a drive ahead of us.”

He’s almost offended. He knew he broke his one rule of smartassery when he made that quip about flashing back – the rule being, don’t say anything that’s actually true – but he always thought of himself as having a pretty good poker face.

So maybe he shouldn’t have said “PTSD.” Maybe he should’ve just said, “just gotta feelin’ about this one, boss. Think the cars’re rigged.”

He could’ve said that, but Art’s perceptive. He would have guessed sooner or later.

Tim would say something, defend his honor, anything, but the truth is, he feels like he’s just taken a bullet to the vest.

He knows what it means. He knows he wasn’t joking, not really, when he implied to Art that he could be having an episode. He wouldn’t have slammed on the brakes so hard when he’d first noticed the abandoned cars if he hadn’t immediately felt fear bloom in his chest, hadn’t tensed automatically. When the IED had eventually, finally, blown up, the sound of the blast made Tim turn two shades paler. He had nearly thrown up.

So when Art tosses back the book, Tim catches it, flips open to the page he’d dog-eared, and shuts up.

“Y’all really keep an old, abandoned building like that standing, huh?”

Tim hears snippets of Art and Raylan’s conversation as he tries to read. They’re speaking mostly to themselves. Raylan’s stretched out in the passenger seat, hat in his hands, languid. He shrugs at Art’s question.

“Don’t know why it’s still standin’ but I sure am grateful to it.”

Maybe it’s their conversation distracting him, maybe it’s how he feels his insides have been scooped out, either way Tim finds it hard to concentrate. He doesn’t even remember what he’s reading. There’re twins, he knows. Twins with magic powers and a secret kingdom – underwater? – and one of the twins doesn’t wanna save the world, but the other is real gung-ho about it. Except Tim can’t remember why the world needs saving to begin with. Maybe that was just something understood. Didn’t matter why. Just know going in that the world needs saving.

A driver up ahead in a rickety old truck blares his horn. Art and Raylan anticipate this, their eyes on the road, but Tim’s juggling the pile of words he’s read but can’t quite string together into a comprehensible sentence, and his nausea, and the ringing in his ears, still, from the blast. So he flinches at the noise, drops the book involuntarily.

“Sorry about that, Tim.” Raylan says casually, like he was the one who had honked his horn.

This makes Tim feel even more like he’s being babysat, so he swallows back bile and says, “What, you did that just sittin’ there? You never told me you were touched.”

“I know.” Raylan retorts. “With me here, whatcha even need those books for?”

“Guess I don’t.” Tim says, and is grateful for the excuse to stop pretending to read. He sets the paperback aside and leans against the seat, arm crossed at his chest. Thinks maybe if he shuts his eyes for a minute or two, he might get to feeling back to normal. And he means it, just a minute. That’s another one of his rules – don’t fall asleep with others around – but Tim reckons it’s not sleeping if he’s just, sorta, you know, _meditating_ for a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Just to clear his head.

\--

“Huh.” Art says, glancing at the view of the backseat in the rearview mirror.

“’Huh’ what?” Raylan echoes, only distantly curious.

“He’s asleep.” Art says, nodding towards Tim. “Ain’t that your bit? Sleepin’ in the car?”

“It’s my favorite bit.” Raylan agrees. “Although I’ll admit I’ve never seen Tim do it.”

“Yeah,” Art says. “Me either.”

“That make you nervous?”

“You know, it does a little.” Art says. “Always suspected there was a reason for it.”

Raylan finally looks over at Art. “You really that worried about him, Art?”

“Well, hell, I dunno, Raylan.” Art says. “You know, I do read those annual medical reports Big Brother makes y’all get.”

“And that’s what his says, huh? Nightmares and PTSD and all that?”

“It don’t say he’s wearing any rose-colored glasses.” Art says.

\--

Half an hour later Raylan gestures for Art to take the exit on the right. “It’s the only one for the next hour,” he says. “Buy me somethin’ to eat?”

“Happy to, Raylan.” Art says.

Tim’s still asleep when they veer off the highway and when they roll to a stop at the gas station. His head rests against the window. Raylan wouldn’t say he looks peaceful, but he’s not sure what Art’s expecting Tim to do. Start talking in his sleep, maybe.

“Leave ‘im be.” Raylan suggests as the two get out of the SUV. “I’ll get ‘im somethin’. What’s he like to eat?”

Art closes the car door and stretches, shrugs. “He likes, sorta, he likes fruits you gotta peel.”

Raylan pauses at the entrance to the store. “Pardon?”

“You know, like oranges and bananas and shit.” Art says. “Clementines. Kind you can put in your pocket and save for later.”

“Okay, thank you, Art.” Raylan rolls his eyes. “Very helpful.”

\--

He’s aware only that he’s hot, sweat forming in beads on his face.

He remembers this heat, he thinks. Arid. The kind of heat that makes you wonder if there’s ever such a thing as enough water, like he could drink and drink from his canteen and still feel parched.

Well, shit, Tim thinks, when he finally recognizes his surroundings.

It’s never clear to him where he is when he dreams. Sometimes he’s in one of his fantasy lands, from all the shit he reads and watches. Sometimes he’s in Kentucky. Most times he’s here. And he knows, he knows it’s a dream. But that doesn’t mean he can stop dreaming.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the sandy ground, in full uniform, sniper rifle strapped to his back. Just sitting. Besides the fact that he’s back where he’d swore he’d never return, he’s just fine. Taking in the view, as it were.

The rest of his company’s in front of him, taking cover behind a makeshift wall of sandbags. There’s a lot of yelling.

“Are y’all trying to be incognito?” Tim asks. “‘Cause—”

“Gutterson, shut the fuck up.” A ranger snaps. Then they start shooting.

 _Oh,_ Tim thinks dully, _we’re battling now._ And then, just as quickly, something clicks, and Tim tenses. _We’re battling now_ , he thinks again, and he reaches for the gun strapped to his back, but now it’s gone, and so he throws his backpack to the ground, starts unzipping, searching for something. Another gun. A grenade.

A bullet whizzes past his ear.

“Fuck.” He says, breath caught in his throat, and when the second bullet goes past him, he falls to the ground for cover.

He shimmies over to the wall, grabs the first ranger he can find and tries to explain to him that he’s defenseless over here, he’s gotta get his hands on a weapon—

But he’s dead, whoever this man is. Shot in the chest. His blood seeps onto Tim’s hands. He falls limply towards Tim.

Tim jerks away before the body can fall on him. With a bloody hand he reaches for the man’s weapon, finds his footing, and starts firing.

But he loses control again. He gets a few shots in but then there’s movement behind him, and in his paranoia, Tim whirls around to see Mark.

“Hey, Tim.” Mark says, his smile out of place in a warzone.

“Dude, get the fuck down.” Tim hisses. Mark’s dressed in an old Army tee and jeans. He’s got no armor, no weapon, and seemingly no idea what’s going on.

“What’s with you?” Mark asks as Tim reaches for him, yanks him to the ground.

“Mark—” Tim starts, dumbfounded, but then he hears his rangers next to him shout something, and he aims his gun back towards the distance, towards the bullets heading their direction.

“Stay down!” He yells back, hoping Mark is listening, hoping he’s found a goddamned helmet or something.

“Cover me!” he hears someone yell, and Tim squares his shoulders, trains his eyes towards the ranger taking cover to replace his ammo.

“I got you.” Tim calls.

“Like this?” Someone says, and yanks Tim back by the hair.

“Shit—” Tim barely manages to get out, dropping his weapon in his surprise. He feels the glint of a blade against his throat, and when he hears the man speak next, he knows the voice.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go, deputy.” Colt says. “I’m gonna slit your throat slow, okay? Slow. Then I’m gonna get your friend.”

“Mark.” Tim says dumbly.

“Sure.” Colt says. “Him.”

“M-Mark!” Tim yells, struggling against Colt’s grip. “Run! Run!”

Colt slits his throat.

\--

Tim wakes up when his head slams against the window, hard. He inhales sharply.

Two things happen at once, before Tim can stop himself: he grabs his gun, and he kicks open the car door.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know where he is, maybe it’s because he’s delirious, but all Tim thinks is, he’s got to get back to his men. He’s got to find Mark.

He doesn’t know how he got in a car, seatbelt secured and all, but he quickly steps out of the vehicle and onto the pavement (pavement? He remembered sand). He cocks his gun.

There’s a building up ahead – something else Tim can’t really square at the moment – but just beyond that, a field of grass that lead into the woods. A good enough hiding place for someone like Colt, Tim thinks. And Mark, too.

\--

“We miss Tim comin’ out?” Art asks when he and Raylan return to the SUV a few minutes later.

Raylan’s busy opening a bag of chips, but he looks at the back door, ajar, and frowns. “Huh uh.” He says. “I ain’t seen ‘im.”

“Think he went to take a leak?” Art suggests.

“Sure.” Raylan says.

“Okay.” Art nods. But the two men stand outside the SUV for a few moments, neither quite convinced.

“Think it’s somethin’ else?” Raylan says eventually.

“I think it’s somethin’ else, Raylan.” Art says.

Raylan nods. “Yeah,” he sighs, discarding their food in the passenger seat. “I do, too.”

\--

They find him near in the middle of the grass field just past the gas station. Raylan spots him first.

“Should I call for him?” He says, glancing at Art.

“Nah, you’ll spook him.” Art says.

“You think?”

“I dunno, Raylan, I’m mostly makin’ this shit up.”

But Tim’s not moving, so they reach him easily enough without having to run after the younger man.

When they reach Tim, he’s standing stock still and staring at this big rock. Just staring. His gun’s drawn and he’s tensed all over, gripping the gun so hard his knuckles are white. His face is matted with sweat. He’s clearly somewhere else. He doesn’t even seem to notice Raylan and Art.

“Tim, son,” Art says gently. “Let’s go back.”

Tim doesn’t start at the noise or make any other inclination that he’s surprised to not be alone here in the middle of nowhere. He just shakes his head blankly. “Haven’t found ‘im yet.” He says simply.

“Who?” Raylan asks, and maybe it’s Raylan’s voice that triggers Tim, or his confusion, but Tim’s head snaps up. When he meets Raylan’s eyes, Raylan can see the exact moment Tim’s vision clears.

He lets out a breath, staggering back. Raylan motions for him to lower his gun and he does so, quickly, cheeks flushing. He sees Art, too, and then looks around him, as if aware of his surroundings for the first time.

“Son—” Art begins.

“Shit.” Tim whispers. He holsters his gun. But that’s all he says. He turns around without another word and heads back to the SUV.

Raylan and Art exchange a glance. Raylan shrugs.

\--

They get back on the road again without a hitch. Raylan tosses back a bag of Doritos and a beat-up clementine. Tim pockets the clementine. Tries to eat a few Doritos. Mostly just stares into the bag.

The three of them don’t say anything for the next thirty minutes. Art fiddles around with the AM radio for a while, tries to find a baseball game or something, but eventually gives up.

Raylan eats an ice cream sandwich and stares out the window.

Finally, hands resting on the steering wheel, hoping for casual-yet-concerned, Art speaks up. “That happen a lot?” he asks.

There’s silence in the vehicle. Tim lifts his head like he’s heard what Art’s said, but he’s otherwise quiet. Raylan licks his fingers.

“Tim?” Art tries again.

“Oh,” Tim says, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. He forces himself to meet Art’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Thought you were askin’ Raylan how often he eats one of those for dinner.”

“See you’re back to normal.” Raylan says.

Tim looks down. Sets the bag of chips aside. He’s tired, the kind of tired he gets when his dreams erase any progress he tried to make by sleeping. He still feels hollowed out.

“Hasn’t happened in a while.” He says, so quiet Art has to strain to hear him.

“‘Cause of the IED thing?” Raylan asks.

“Took me by surprise.” Tim admits.

“Sure.” Raylan nods, understanding.

“We’ve got an hour, hour and a half yet in this drive, son.” Art says. “If you wanted to talk.” 

Tim shakes his head.

“Okay, son.” Art says. He trains his eyes back on the road.

After a beat of silence, Raylan speaks up. “Let’s not tell Rachel.”

Tim and Art both nod.

“I already got Rachel giving me updates on the two of you, sorry shits y’all are.” Art says.

“Me?” Tim protests. “I ain’t got near as much shit as Raylan.”

“Least I ain’t flashin’ back.” Raylan says.

Tim flips him off.

“Aw, leave ‘im be, Raylan.” Art says. “He can’t help what he’s got. You can.”

“Sure, I can help it.” Tim says, feeling a little lighter, finally. “Long as I get shitfaced before I hit the hay at night, I don’t have any trouble sleepin’.”

“That right?” Art says, then he shakes his head, letting out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

Tim’s smirk fades.

“And if you get less than shitfaced?” Raylan asks.

 _Broke my rule again,_ Tim thinks. He takes a breath before responding. “I get it now,” he says. “I get why Raylan don’t like answering all those personal questions at work.”

“Oh yeah? Think I get you too, now.” Raylan returns.

“Earlier,” Art cuts in. “You said you get like this whenever you handle a firearm in public.”

“Boss,” Tim says, “you gotta know that near 90 percent of what I say is bull.”

“Yeah? Well, give it to me straight.” Art says. “You bullshittin’ me back there?”

“We really still talkin’ about this?” Tim says.

“Now—”

“Who were you lookin’ for?” Raylan interrupts. “Before. At the gas station, I mean.”

Tim sighs. “A friend,” he says.

“You find him?”

"He’s dead.”

Silence falls over the three again. Rayan seems content with this answer, or, at least, he doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Soon, he puts his hat over his face and falls asleep.

Tim stares out the window. Art chews his gum.

\--

The silence lasts all the way to their building in Lexington. Art pulls into a parking spot real quiet, on account of Raylan sleeping like a baby the rest of the way back. He wakes easily, no flinching or hitting his head or deliriousness, Tim notes dully, and unbuckles.

“Well, boys,” he says. “Thanks for the ride.” He stretches his lanky arms.

“We’ll talk about that suspension tomorrow, Raylan.” Art says.

“Uh huh.” Raylan says, and he spots his car. Another marshal had driven it back for him, put it in his regular spot.

Tim takes some files from the backseat and shuts the door behind him.

"Now, Tim,” Art says. “Why don’t you head on home?”

“Nah, not tired.” Tim says. “Besides, someone’s gotta start on these reports.”

"Sure.” Art nods. “In the morning.”

“Gonna wait for Rachel.” Tim tries again. “See how it was with her.”

Raylan and Art narrow their eyes, sussing Tim out. He stands on the steps leading up to the front door and sweats it out under their gazes.

In the end, Raylan shrugs, and claps Art on the back. Tips his hat to Tim. “Later, fellas.” He says.

“I’ll head up with you.” Art says, placing his hand on Tim’s back briefly. “Need to grab somethin’.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim says, calling his bluff. “What’s that?”

“How about the common sense you left here at the office this morning.” Art retorts without any bite. “Wanna make sure it gets back to you.”

Tim nods, knows when he’s been out-quipped. The two head up the steps.

The marshals’ office is dark when Tim and Art walk in. Tim flips on a light near his desk and sets the files down. Art watches him, arms crossed against his chest.

“You were returnin’ somethin’?” Tim says.

“Listen, son, I’ll just say this.” Art says, and then he looks at Tim, seems to deliberate something. “Eh, forget it.” He says. “Just don’t come to work hungover tomorrow.”

“I know my limits, boss.” Tim says.

“Yeah,” Art says. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He lets out a sigh and then pokes his head into his office for a moment, makes a show of grabbing a folder and then showing it to Tim. _See,_ he says, _I grabbed something._

But soon, Art leaves, too, and it’s just Tim in the looming space. Once he’s alone, finally alone for the first time all day, he takes a seat at his desk and presses the power button on his computer. He hears it slowly whir to life.

As he waits, he drops his head into his hands. He lets out a breath. He resets.

 _Don’t break now, Tim,_ he thinks. There’s work to do yet.


End file.
